


fish bowl

by sabrinachill



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, M/M, Mostly Softness and Fluff, Quarantine, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrinachill/pseuds/sabrinachill
Summary: Alex makes a series of phone calls and bad choices that lead him directly here — an Airstream on the edge of a junkyard with a distractingly attractive mechanic showing him how the dining table converts into a bed that he can sleep on for just $75 a week.It is, of course, completely absurd.But there’s something cozy about the fuzzy yellow blanket on the bed/table and the sparkling sunlight streaming through the mostly-clean windows, in the smell of leather and motor oil and aftershave and summer storms, in the hopeful half-smile on Michael’s face.That’s his name — Michael. Alex’s potential new roommate and landlord.He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his vision blurring as he shakes his head at himself. He knows now that he has undoubtedly lost whatever shred of sanity he’d managed to hold onto through the war, because the next thing he says is—“Yeah, okay. I’ll take it.”(AKA An AU About Quarantined Roommates Who Fall in Love)
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 63
Kudos: 354





	fish bowl

_Did you exchange_  
_A walk on part in the war_  
_For a lead role in a cage?_  
_How I wish, how I wish you were here_  
_We’re just two lost souls_  
_Swimming in a fish bowl_

Pink Floyd, “Wish You Were Here”

Alex blames the whole thing on Linda Butterfield, Real Estate Agent Extraordinaire™. 

Her slogan, _“Seize your spot in the sun!”_ has been plastered all over Roswell since he was stationed here a year ago, shouting in incessantly cheerful fonts from billboards and bus stop benches and business cards left in stacks on every diner counter in town. 

So it was only a matter of time, really, before it wormed its way into Alex’s brain so deeply that as he sits there on a bright Thursday afternoon wondering what the hell he’s going to do with his life after his looming discharge, he thinks — _I want a house._

(Okay, so that’s not entirely accurate. What he actually thinks is _I want a_ ** _home_** , but that’s more sentimental than he’d like to admit. And besides — his idea of what makes a home isn’t exactly something you can be in escrow for.)

He’s discharged on a Friday. On Monday, he calls Linda.

And she spends a couple of weeks dragging him through several dozen increasingly shitty options before finally suggesting he find a short-term rental to live in while they work on finding his “forever home.” She actually uses that phrase, like Alex is some sort of rescue dog up for adoption.

He supposes she’s not wrong.

So he asks a friend of his at the diner where he has breakfast every morning; she says her boyfriend’s brother is always looking for extra cash and might be willing to rent him a room, but she’s not sure exactly where he lives.

And Alex makes a series of phone calls and bad choices that lead him directly here — an Airstream on the edge of a junkyard with a distractingly attractive mechanic showing him how the dining table converts into a bed that he can sleep on for just $75 a week.

It is, of course, completely absurd. Alex may not be swimming in cash but he has enough saved that he can afford another option. This tin can isn’t really big enough for one grown man, let alone two that are complete strangers. 

But there’s something cozy about the fuzzy yellow blanket on the bed/table and the sparkling sunlight streaming through the mostly-clean windows, in the smell of leather and motor oil and aftershave and summer storms, in the hopeful half-smile on Michael’s face.

That’s his name — Michael. Alex’s potential new roommate and landlord.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his vision blurring as he shakes his head at himself. He knows now that he has undoubtedly lost whatever shred of sanity he’d managed to hold onto through the war, because the next thing he says is—

“Yeah, okay. I’ll take it.”

Michael’s answering smile seems to light up the entire desert.

* * *

Six days and seventeen pilfered Oreos later, Alex is seriously regretting that decision.

Michael is messy and loud, tinkering on cars and other, less discernible pieces of machinery at all hours of the night. He drinks too much. He has some seriously questionable taste in music and he likes to sing along (despite knowing less than half of the words) in the entirely wrong key. He talks to himself out loud but never answers his phone, letting it ring and ring and ring from his pocket or beneath his pillow or lost in the pile of detritus on the small table he uses as a desk. 

He also seems to think that wearing a shirt should be reserved for special occasions only, a habit that has resulted in Alex becoming entirely too familiar with Michael’s nipples and the contour of his abs; he has found himself absently formulating equations to calculate the exact plane of Michael’s chest. And every time Alex closes his eyes he can see it, sun-kissed and sweat-slicked — which is equal parts maddening and delicious.

(Making matters even more confusing, he keeps catching Michael sneaking little glances at him from behind his laptop or across the junkyard, an inscrutable expression on his face.)

And, maybe worst of all, he won’t stop stealing Alex’s food.

“I don’t think this is working out.”

It’s 12:37 PM and Guerin is barely awake, slumped in a lawn chair with his black cowboy hat pulled low over his bloodshot eyes. Everything about him had been boneless, languid, a melted puddle of liquid hangover, but he bolts upright at Alex’s words.

“What?! No, don’t say that; I think it’s going great.” Michael scrubs a hand over his stubbled face in an effort to compose himself, but there’s still a little panic in his honey-brown eyes when he turns to face him. 

Alex hasn’t moved, standing in the Airstream’s doorway with one hand braced against the side for support, favoring his leg. He’s had the prosthetic for a couple of years now, but he’s beginning to believe that he’ll never fully adjust; he’ll always feel a little unsteady and off-balance.

He kind of hates it.

Michael blinks a few times; sleep is still crusted in the corner of his left eye. “What is it? I can tidy up more or try to be quieter, or get you some better pillows, I know those are kind of flat, or—“

“No, it’s just, uh,” Alex rubs at the side of his neck with his free hand, reaching for diplomacy. “It’s the cramped quarters. I had enough of that in Iraq to last a lifetime.” His hand travels up to brush the hair off his forehead — he’s been growing it since his discharge and hasn’t yet adjusted to the length, the way the ends tickle against his skin in the desert wind. “Besides, you seem like a guy who’s used to being on his own.”

Michael chuckles, that dry laugh he has that’s got nothing to do with humor. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.” He rolls his lips together and looks out toward the junkyard’s still-locked gate. “Look, I know I’m not the easiest guy in the world. I don’t have a lot of friends and I’m not exactly what my sister would call ‘civilized,’ so I’m not used to being around people that I’m not related to.”

Alex nods and shifts a fraction back toward the inside of the Airstream, thoughts already transitioning to packing his few possessions, finding somewhere new to crash, calling Linda to get her to hurry the house hunt along—

“But I can stop being such a pain in the ass, Alex. Really. I don’t want you to go.”

There’s something in his voice that stops Alex; something more than the words themselves. It’s a little cracked and scraped raw, hinting at a jagged depth beneath it that Alex recognizes. 

It’s inside him, too. 

His eyes narrow as he studies Michael. “Really? You’re think you’re actually _capable_ of not being a pain in the ass?”

Michael laughs, for real this time, and shrugs his tanned shoulders. “Honestly? I don’t know.” The smile fades a bit and he meets Alex’s eyes. “But I can try. Please let me.”

And, God help him, but Alex can’t help being struck by how cute Michael is sitting there with his wild curls and his stained jeans and his uncharacteristic earnestness. A feral animal with an endless supply of barely contained energy, just trying its best to function in domesticity. 

Real Estate Agent Extraordinaire™ Linda Butterfield treats Alex like a stray dog; he wonders if the universe has conspired with her in some giant cosmic joke to pair him up with another one.

“What does it matter to you,” he asks, feeling like the answer is important without knowing exactly _why,_ “if I stay? Do you just need the money that badly?”

Because that has to be it. No matter what traitorous feelings might be beginning to fester in his chest, he and Michael haven’t really talked since he moved in a week ago. They’ve moved around one another in tight quarters, listened to each other snore from opposite ends of the trailer, carefully navigated the tiny kitchen and even smaller bathroom — but they never really learned much about one another. 

So it has to be the money. It can’t be about Alex, in particular. 

Can’t be.

“I mean, yeah, I do,” Michael answers, and Alex feels something in his chest deflate with a tiny ‘pop’ before sinking below his stomach, “but it’s not just that.” He tilts his head back so he can see Alex more clearly beneath the hat’s brim. “I guess I was kind of getting used to having you around. It’s, uh, it’s nice,” he finishes, sort of lamely, like hadn’t planned on saying that and is now disappointed in himself for the slip.

The bubble of hope inside Alex resurrects and expands, wrapping warmly around his heart. 

He smiles a little, despite himself, and walks carefully down the Airstream’s steps before sinking into an empty metal chair; a few flakes of rust shake loose and fall to the sand in a glittering red rain. With his good foot, he toes at one of the empty bottles littering the ground. 

“So what’s the money for?” Alex asks. “Better hair products? A seventy-billionth George Strait album? More of this objectively _terrible_ beer?”

“Hey now,” Michael answers with a mock-threatening point and a wide smile, his teeth glinting in the sunlight, “Michelob Ultra is the true king of beers, you blasphemer.”

“Oh, forgive me, I didn’t realize you had suffered the tragic loss of all your taste buds.”

“I have impeccable taste. After all, I like _you_ , don’t I?”

Alex raises an eyebrow; Michael readjusts his hat and clears his throat, suddenly a little squirmy.

“But, uh, the money — it’s for tuition. I’m working on my B.S. in mechanical engineering online from UNM.”

Alex blinks a few times, pieces rearranging themselves in his brain to bring the picture of Michael Guerin a little more clearly into focus. “So that’s what you’re doing on your laptop at all those ungodly hours of the night? Studying?”

“Yeah, why? What’d you think I was doing?”

“Watching a disturbing amount of porn, mostly.”

Michael sits silent, stunned for half a second before dissolving into uncontrollable laughter; it’s Alex’s absolute favorite kind of sound. One that’s big and loud, full-bellied and _real_. Little tears appear in Guerin’s eyes and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away—

—and Alex knows then and there that he’s going to stay. 

His head is shouting that it’s incredibly dumb but his heart…oh, his heart is too full to listen.

After all, what’s one more bad decision in a lifetime of them? 

* * *

One that lands them trapped in an indefinite quarantine with each another, apparently.

The early warning signs are there, in the headlines appearing above the rental listings in the Roswell Daily Record’s online edition. Alex notices them when he scans for a new place every day.

(Yes, he’s still searching despite his promise to stay. Alex has always had one foot out the door of any situation he’s ever been in, but he came by it honest; growing up with Jesse Manes would teach anyone to have an escape plan in place at all times.)

So he keeps looking for a backup option, a plan B, a way out. He never reads about a place that he wants to go check out, but he does pick up on the trend developing in the news. 

At first it’s just a small headline near the bottom of the page, a mention of a new virus beginning to spread halfway around the world. Then it arrives on the West Coast. Then there’s a story about a few infections at a nursing home up in Albuquerque. 

And then the trickle becomes a torrent, an endless stream of closures and cancellations and mandatory stay-at-home orders with no end in sight. Time seems to bubble and warp until it becomes distorted beyond all recognition — a week feels like a year, hours disappear with no memory of them passing. 

Before either of them can react, the world has effectively ended.

“Well, _fuck,_ ” Michael mutters.

“My sentiments exactly.” 

* * *

Still, little by little, they adjust. Settle into new routines. Against all odds, things actually start to _improve_ as the days drift by.

It’s not that they’re insensitive to what’s going on in the world around them. It’s just that it seems…distant. Remote. Like something from a horror movie, or a news report beamed in from a different solar system. 

Their lives have become too small to hold something so overwhelmingly, all-consumingly _big._

* * *

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Alex pauses from strapping on his leg and looks up with a raised eyebrow. “Actually, I do. Mine isn’t a permanent one anymore — it tends to fall off if I don’t buckle it.”

Michael scratches at the back of his neck. “I just mean, I know those things aren’t comfortable. You’re at home and it’s just me — you don't have to wear it for pretense. You can use a crutch if you’d rather.”

“I, uh... I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Sometimes people can be weird about things like this.”

“Well, I’m weird about plenty of shit, but definitely not about anything to do with your legs.” Guerin winks and squeezes Alex’s shoulder for a second on his way to the door, settling his black hat over those riotous curls as he finishes, “So just do whatever makes you comfortable.”

* * *

“I’m headed to the laundromat if you want to throw anything in,” Alex calls, slinging a mesh bag stuffed with dirty clothes over his shoulder.

Michael pulls his headphones off and retrieves his own overflowing basket from beneath his bed — but then he just dumps the dirty clothes together and holds them hostage. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“...Then I hope you’re prepared for me to be roaming around the junkyard naked.” Alex tugs the elastic band of his underwear up to peek over the waist of his jeans. “I’m wearing my last clean pair.”

Michael can’t seem to drag his eyes away; he directs his answer to somewhere in the neighborhood of Alex’s crotch. “Tempting as that idea may be, I have a better solution.”

Forty-eight seconds later, Alex is frowning at a washing machine standing in the sand behind the trailer. At least, he _thinks_ it’s a washing machine, built Frankenstein-style out of a myriad of parts, the newest of which probably dates from some time in the late ‘80s. It’s white and beige and avocado green; there’s a rust spot shaped a little like Texas spreading across the top; a duct-taped extension cord snakes beneath the trailer and hoses of dubious quality run from the back of it. 

“This thing actually works?”

“Hell yeah it does; I rigged it up myself.” The toe of Michael’s boot scuffs across the sand, leaving a faint line drawn between them. “I mean, look — I’m so strapped for cash that I rented out half my _trailer_ to, no offense, a complete stranger. Does that seem like the action of a man who has the kind of money it takes to go to a laundromat?”

“And so I assume you dry everything…” Alex turns and spots the sagging wire stretched between the pole of the overhang where Michael keeps his tools and a tall piece of rebar stuck in the dirt, “—there.”

Michael’s scratching his neck and he’s not looking at Alex anymore. “I just thought, with everything going on, maybe you wouldn’t want to have to sit around at the laundromat for hours. I know this doesn’t look like much—” he cuts himself off and there’s something in Michael’s tone that Alex has never heard before, something too close to shame for comfort.

He can’t stand it. 

“Are you kidding?” Alex says, with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm. “This is _genius,_ Guerin. Honestly. Saves us both money and keeps us from risking exposure...it’s perfect.”

He pulls the first load of laundry from the basket, all their t-shirts and boxers tangled up together, and puts it in the machine. 

And, just like Michael promised, it runs perfectly.

They stand there and watch their clothes swirl around one another in the suds for a long minute, Michael smiling faintly, Alex suddenly finding it a little harder to breathe.

* * *

Michael, true to his word, seems to be actively trying to be a better roommate. He stops leaving his dirty socks on the floor; he washes his coffee cup in the morning; he wears headphones when he wants to blare his irritatingly twangy music.

He even cooks dinner for Alex one night, sliding a surprisingly beautifully plated bowl of pasta between Alex’s face and his laptop. It takes Alex’s brain a few seconds to swim up from the depths of coding he’d been diving through for his latest freelance gig, but the scents of garlic and basil help the process along.

He takes a tentative bite, eyebrows climbing halfway to his hairline. “It’s actually…really good.”

“Of course it is,” Michael answers, shoving in at the table with a bowl of his own. He glances up at Alex from beneath his brows, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Don’t be so shocked, Captain; I’ve got skills you’ve never even _dreamed_ of.”

And Alex Manes, who survived his father and the Air Force and an actual freaking _war_ , nearly departs the earth right then and there by choking to death on Michael’s rigatoni and innuendo.

* * *

It quickly turns into a routine, the two of them working out an intricate dance of chopping and sautéing and mixing and baking (and bickering over whose Spotify playlist they listen to) as they prepare increasingly elaborate meals out of whatever they were able to find at the grocery store that week. 

And then it’s only natural to sit down together at the tiny table that converts into Alex’s bed, elbows and hands and knees brushing as they eat, conversation somehow flowing easily despite spending all day in close proximity of one another.

Then there’s dishes to wash before the sun sets in an explosion of orange and pink and purple over the distant mountains. They watch it disappear then turn to Netflix, legs dangling off the edge of Michael’s bed as they lean against the wall and prop a laptop across Michael’s right thigh and Alex’s left. 

They take turns choosing increasingly shitty movies to mock together as the moon rises outside and the stars begin to twinkle. Their faces are lit only by the cool glow of the screen, shoulders warm where they press against one another, hands careful to avoid tangling together.

Alex couldn’t tell you a single thing about the plots of any of the movies they watch, but he could spend hours describing every detail about the brush of Guerin’s breath, the profile of his nose and solid heat of his leg, the elegant fingers of his right hand and the marred flesh of his left.

Nothing Hollywood produces could hold a candle to any of that.

* * *

Alex is headed into town one afternoon to do their joint grocery shopping trip (wearing a mask that Guerin made for him out of an old t-shirt that still smells faintly of his skin) but he doesn’t even get his SUV in reverse before Michael is hopping down the trailer’s steps and striding toward him. 

“What the hell is that sound?”

The end of this question seems exponentially louder than the beginning, Michael’s voice growing closer and clearer as Alex rolls the window down.

He frowns, confused for a minute before he remembers. “Oh, yeah, that weird clank. It’s been doing that since I bought it.” He shrugs a little. “It’s irritating but doesn’t seem to be hurting anything.” 

“It’s hurting my professional _pride_. Let me take a look at your engine.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, you can mess around with it when I get back.” 

“Nope, now. It might be dangerous for you to be driving around in that thing, and it’s _definitely_ bad for my reputation. Here—“ Michael tosses something through the open window so fast that Alex snatches at it in pure reflex. 

Keys. 

“Take my truck.”

Alex looks over at the ancient, hulking thing; he’s pretty sure it was manufactured around the same time as the supposed UFO crash. Maybe even from its salvaged parts. 

“Thanks, but I think I feel safer in my car. Or literally any other car. Or even just walking on my own feet — and I’ve only got the one.”

“Ha ha, wise ass. She might not look like much but she runs like a dream.” Michael reaches through the window and curls Alex’s fingers tightly around the keys. They’re still warm from being in Michael’s pocket, the little metal edges pressing into the fine lines of Alex’s palm. “Take the truck. I’ll feel better knowing you won’t wind up broken down in the middle of the desert.”

Alex swallows; the heat from the keys seems to spread all the way through him. “If you’re sure…” he starts, but Guerin is already opening Alex’s door, waving him out and popping the hood of the SUV. 

So he climbs up into the truck. 

It’s surprisingly clean inside, the faint scents of Armor All and motor oil and _Michael_ hanging in the air. The vinyl seats are warm from the sun and they feel…comfortable. Familiar, somehow.

They aren’t, of course; none of this is familiar. 

After all, it’s not as if anyone has bothered to look after him before.

Alex rolls the window down and turns the engine over, letting the wind whip through his ever-longer hair, not even trying to fight the smile spreading across his face.

* * *

The earth has been flayed open and everything has been stripped away but this: heat and sand and the constant ringing, deafening white noise screaming in his blown-out eardrums. 

And the pain, of course. 

Pain so intense that it feels distant almost, disconnected, like his brain and his body have filed for divorce. 

But it’s the wetness that strikes him. The desert is dry, it’s supposed to be dry, but there’s so much sweat and tears and blood — god, the _blood_ — and there’s something shining wetly where his shin should be and the fuzziness in his head gets louder and he just wants to float away from it all but he’s not and he can’t and god just let it end somehow because—

“Alex?”

The voice is faint and very far away, but familiar in a way that he doesn’t so much understand as _feel_ , like a hook inside his chest, pulling him up from this for just a second, just long enough to steal a shaky breath—

“Alex. Come on, Alex, wake up. Come back.”

That’s Guerin’s voice. But Guerin shouldn’t be here, he should be back home where it’s safe; Alex doesn’t want him to be part of this, he can’t—

“It’s not real. You just need to wake up.”

And Alex, apparently unable to deny him anything even in his sleep, obeys. 

He blinks to find Michael sitting up in his bed across the trailer, barely visible in the gray moonlight peeping around the edges of the curtains. Alex appreciates the distance, that he didn’t try to touch him or loom over him. 

Michael’s wild curls are like a halo around his head, his skin sleep-flushed. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers — which isn’t exactly new to Alex since he sleeps that way every night — but it feels different now. More intimate. 

Alex tugs the fuzzy yellow blanket up to his chin. “Thank you,” he says, so softly he’s not sure Michael hears him at first.

But he does. He slides out of his bed, taking the few steps across the trailer on bare feet, dragging his faded comforter behind him. And then he’s settling in on the warped linoleum beside Alex’s bed, wrapping himself in the blanket, leaning back against the cheap siding.

“I used to get those kinds of dreams,” he offers, a tether tossed through the dark.

“You had PTSD flashbacks about the war?”

Michael flexes his bad hand. “Different kind of war, but yeah.”

Alex turns onto his side; their faces are only inches apart now. Michael’s profile is a collection of sharp lines drawn in grayscale, a preliminary sketch by a Renaissance sculptor. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Michael swallows and keeps staring at his hand. “I was separated from my family and wound up in the foster system for a few years growing up. They weren’t all bad, but some of them…” Alex can see him steadying himself, the way his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, the way he tugs his knees in a little closer to his chest. “There was this one, a religious nut job up in Albuquerque. I spent a little too long in the bathroom one day and he got the idea that I was touching myself in a way he wouldn’t approve of. So he got a hammer and tried to make sure that I could never do that again.”

Alex pulls the blanket even higher until it’s covering his mouth, trying to muffle the sharp intake of shocked breath.

Michael just continues. “I ran away, and my brother and sister found me again not long after that. I spent the rest of high school in a sleeping bag on Max’s floor, and I was safe — but the dreams wouldn’t leave me alone. He used to have to wake me from them almost every night.”

“How did you get past it?” 

Michael drops his chin to his chest, talking into the relative safety of his knees. “I didn’t, not for a long time. But Max convinced me to go see someone about it a few years back. And, as much as I hate to admit it, it actually helped.” 

The rest of the statement, the suggestion that Alex seek help for his own issues, goes unsaid. 

Alex is appreciative of that, too. 

He reaches a hand out from beneath the blanket; Michael takes it easily.

They sit there for a long moment, letting themselves breathe in the quiet comfort of one another. Outside, the desert seems to be sound asleep; there are no rustling noises in the scrub brush beneath the windows, no coyotes howling in the distance. The silence is a soft blanket lying protectively across them.

“Thanks, Michael,” Alex finally says, thickly, hoping he understands that the gratitude is for far more than waking him from a nightmare.

Michael has rescued him in one way or another every day for weeks now, but Alex will never have the words to tell him. 

So Michael just nods and squeezes Alex’s fingers one more time, then climbs to his feet and goes back to his own bed.

* * *

“Who was your first real kiss?”

They’re sitting around the fire pit a few days later and it’s the wrong side of midnight, the ground between them littered with empty cans and bottles. The leg of Alex’s sweatpants is knotted up, his crutch leaning against the arm of his chair. 

Orange light plays over the lines of Michael’s face, softening some and throwing others into stark relief, making him both familiar and foreign to Alex’s drunk brain. He’s Schrödinger’s Michael: simultaneously both Alex’s closest companion and a complete and total stranger. Someone handsome and mysterious, maybe even a little dangerous.

It’s an intoxicating mixture, even more so than the alcohol. 

“Andrew Cooper, 7th grade,” Michael says, before tipping back his beer and draining it, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply in the dancing firelight.

It takes Alex’s fuzzy mind a second to remember what question he had asked; then it tries and utterly fails to keep the shock off his face.

Michael’s watching him more closely than Alex would have thought possible given the amount of alcohol swimming in his bloodstream. “I’m bisexual,” he offers, head tilting a little in Alex’s direction. “Hope that isn’t going to be a problem between us.”

Alex laughs, stunned that he can make a sound around the bubble of hope that has now expanded to engulf his entire chest. “Definitely not. I’m just a little surprised.”

Michael quirks a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? I’ve been flirting with you for, like, _a month_ and you’re surprised that I’m not straight?”

“If that was flirting, your game needs some serious work.” The retort comes quick; Alex learned to hide feelings behind wit early on. 

“That’s not what I’ve been told,” Michael drawls, eyes sparkling as he leans back in the chair, belt buckle shining prominently from low on his hips. 

Alex just rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” Michael concedes, scraping at the sand with his boot heel, “but seriously — what did you think was going on here?”

Alex shifts, the chair beneath him suddenly too hard. “I tried not to think about it at all,” he lies. “I guess…I guess I just thought you were messing with me. Like flirting is your native language and you can’t help but speak it with everyone.”

Michael shakes his head, eyes soft. “I would never mess with you like that.” He leans over the arm of his chair until his face is in Alex’s personal space. One corner of his mouth lifts in a sly smile; his gentle breath brushes against Alex’s overheated skin. “I’d like to mess _around_ with you, though.” 

His hand slides onto Alex’s knee, fingertips stretching up toward his thigh. Alex can imagine what it would feel like on his bare skin — the rough scrape of callouses, the strength and gentleness and talent of his nimble fingers, the faint scent of the paint thinner he scrubs his nails with to remove the motor oil stains.

Alex leans forward without thinking, his body acting on weeks of restrained, aching _want._ His brain is finally offline, his blood is carbonated, his nerves are sparking — he’s finally going to learn what Guerin tastes like. 

He shifts forward another inch, close enough to feel the heat from Michael’s face, to see the flecks of color in his eyes and imagine the scrape of stubble against his cheek. The chair tips toward Michael just a bit, just enough to lose a tiny fraction of balance—

—And Alex’s crutch falls from the arm, clattering to the ground beside him. 

The sound feels like being slapped awake.

Because he’s suddenly aware that no matter what happens right now, when tomorrow comes they’re still going to be quarantined together. There’s no way to run when this all inevitably goes sideways; there’s nowhere to run _to._

(The idea that he won’t actually need to go, that this could maybe be _something_ , be real, be lasting…it occurs to him, intellectually, but it never reaches his heart. He can’t feel it; he can’t let himself believe it.)

Because love has only ever meant leaving. Loss. Pain.

And he can’t do that, not now, not with Michael.

So he pulls back.

Michael blinks, feeling the sudden tension in Alex’s body, and lets his hand fall away. “What just happened? I thought—“

“I know, but we shouldn’t. We’re living together and things could rapidly become…complicated.”

“Complicated.” Michael echoes, flatly.

“Messy,” Alex clarifies, his voice steadier as he pulls even farther away. His chair is back on solid ground again, but he’s never felt more off-balance.

Michael presses his lips into a thin white line, shaking his head and staring out into the endless darkness of the desert. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we, _soldier_?”

In Michael’s mouth, the word sounds like a slur. 

Alex just stands and makes his way unsteadily to bed, letting the wound he’s carved between them bleed out into the sand.

* * *

The next morning Alex wakes to find that the weather has turned unseasonably cold, the dry desert night reaching its icy hand right into the heart of their trailer. It’s early enough that the sunlight is still weak, only the thinnest, palest yellow beginning to leak in around the curtains. Michael is standing, buttoning up a shirt with his good hand, then sliding that phone he never seems to check into the pocket of his faded jeans.

Tiny warning bells begin to ring between Alex’s ears; Guerin never wakes before him.

Alex’s voice is still thick with sleep, his tongue dry. “Where are you going?”

“Out.” Michael doesn’t even look at him.

“We’re still under quarantine,” Alex reminds him.

But he gets no response.

“Michael, come on. Don’t…don’t do something stupid just because of what happened with us.”

Michael snatches his keys off the hook by the door with a sharp, metallic rattle. “ _Nothing_ happened with us. Besides, despite recent evidence to the contrary, not everything I do is about you, sweetheart.” Alex can practically taste the venom dropping from Michael’s words, bitter and acrid. “See that tow truck out there? It means that I’m essential, for once. Jim Valenti’s broken down out on the side of I-70 and he called me to come get him.” He bends over, tugging on his boots. “So, I’m needed. I’ve gotta go.”

Alex says, “Michael—“ but then stops himself. What is he going to say? Don’t go? It’s too dangerous? He can’t; he of all people understands putting yourself in harm’s way to help someone else. “Just…please be careful.” He swallows, hard, and forces himself to meet Michael’s eyes. ”Jim Valenti’s not the only person who needs you.”

His only answer is the Airstream door slamming shut.

* * *

Alex hears the tow truck rumble back into the lot a couple of hours later, while he’s pushing cold eggs around his plate and trying to convince his stomach that there’s nothing wrong.

He’s out the trailer door before the engine even cuts off, but the tow truck’s not in its usual spot. Instead, Michael has parked on the far end, way out by the gate.

Squinting, Alex can just barely make him out through the windshield. And he’s waving at Alex with both arms in big, sweeping arcs — a warning.

Alex stops cold; a few seconds later his phone beeps with an incoming text from Michael.

_Jim was on his way to the hospital when he broke down. He’s sick, so now maybe I am too. You have to stay away._

Alex’s brain won’t let him process the words at first, choosing instead to focus on the fact that he’s never gotten a text from Michael before, that he wasn’t even sure Michael knew _how_ to text, that he types with capitalization and punctuation and Alex never would have expected that from him—

And then he can’t breathe and he needs to run and there’s that buzzing, ringing sound in his ears like another IED has exploded beneath him. He sways a little on his prosthetic; his fingers shake as he types a reply.

_It’s okay. It’s going to be okay._ He hits send, then immediately starts typing again. _Just come inside and we’ll figure it out._

He looks up at Michael, sees his black hat move as he shakes his head. The phone beeps in his hand.

_I’m not going to risk you, Alex. Not ever._

Alex narrows his eyes at the screen. _So what are you going to do? Just live in your truck for two weeks?_

_Won’t be the first time._

Alex’s fingers are moving before he can really think about it. There’s no clever segue, no dancing around the point; his heart is the one typing now. 

_I’m sorry about last night._

The three dots of Michael typing blink for a long time, appearing and disappearing twice before the reply finally comes. 

_It doesn’t matter now._

Alex’s heart sinks even further; he didn’t know that was possible. _What can I do?_ He types frantically. _How can I help?_

_Just go back inside. I’ll be fine._

They stare at each other across the distance for a long time, the sun reflecting off the truck’s windshield and obscuring Alex’s view of Michael’s face. He hears a rock crunching beneath his shoe when he shifts his weight; the wind whistles faintly in his ears.

Michael never opens the door.

Alex finally turns, trudging back to the Airstream, feeling like the world has ended all over again.

* * *

He comes out a few hours later with a tray full of food. It’s everything he’s learned that Michael loves, prepared as carefully as he can. He’s also filled a cooler with ice and a six-pack and, in an action he doesn’t think too carefully about, adds a tiny yellow wildflower that he picks from the scrub behind the trailer.

Michael has moved to the tailgate of his pickup, a scratchy-looking blanket folded beneath him, the fire pit dragged close. Smoke rises thick and gray on the wind, smudging around him, diffusing his edges.

Alex pulls a lawn chair halfway between the trailer and the truck, fifty feet away in either direction. He sets the tray on the seat, puts the cooler in the sand, and waves a little, awkwardly.

Michael raises his chin in acknowledgement, calls out a small thanks.

Alex feels like he’s leaving a piece of himself out here in the parking lot, tossing around like a tumbleweed in the merciless wind.

* * *

The tray is empty when he comes back a couple of hours later, this time his arms laden with all the pillows and blankets from Michael’s bed. 

And then those have been retrieved when he brings out dinner; the truck bed is transformed into what looks like a halfway comfortable nest with Michael sprawled out in the middle of it.

Each time he brings something out, Alex gets a wave, a thanks, and nothing else.

At least, until 11:42 that night when his phone lights up again.

_The stars are pretty incredible out here._

Alex is out of the bed and navigating the trailer steps with his crutch twelve seconds later.

He can barely see Michael by the light of the fire pit, the flames fighting a losing battle with the darkness settling across the angles of his face.

Alex carefully lowers himself into the chair closest to the trailer and tips his head back, staring up at the thousands of twinkling bits of light scattered across the expanse of darkness above them.

One seems to detach itself from the sky, a silver streak shooting over their heads. Alex makes a wish on it before he can remember that he doesn’t believe in such silly things anymore, an impulse from a part of himself he’d thought long dead.

Technically he and Michael could hear each other if they shouted, like calling across an empty football field, but they don’t. The moment seems too fragile, the night around them much too thick. 

So Alex texts his answer: _You’re right. The view is amazing._

Michael’s face lifts a little, illuminated by the blue glow of his phone’s screen. And when the reply comes, Alex expects it somehow, despite the swift subject change. _Did you mean it? When you said you were sorry about last night?_

The urge to deflect is strong and instinctive. There are rules he has always played by — never reveal your hand, keep the walls up, stay in control of the situation. 

Always. 

But it doesn’t feel like those policies protect him anymore; in fact, he’s pretty sure they’re what’s keeping him from what he really wants. 

And, now that he lets himself consider it, he realizes something else — he’s totally and unbearably _sick_ of following the goddamn rules. He has been for a long time.

His heart is slamming against his sternum, adrenaline sings along his nerves. But he’s never given someone a reason to call him a coward, and he’s sure as hell not going to start acting like one now.

_I’ve never regretted anything more._

He looks up as soon as he taps send; a few seconds later Michael looks up too, their eyes searching one another’s across the distance and darkness.

_Why’d you do it then?_

Alex is teetering on the edge of a cliff and he’s not sure if he’s going to fall or fly, but he’s finally ready to find out. He feels fearless. He feels _free._

_I was scared._

_And now you’re not?_

Statistics flash through Alex’s mind of infection and mortality rates, followed by images of overwhelmed emergency rooms, Michael’s smiling face gone slack as a machine breathes for him and Alex waiting frantically for some sort of update, for Michael to get better, to come _home—_

_Now I’m scared of something completely different._

It’s quiet for a long time, and Alex is starting to think that Michael won’t answer. He looks back up at the stars, wishing he could rewind to just 24 hours ago when he could feel the heat of Michael’s body and breath, smell the soap and sweat scent of his skin. When he was a tangible, physical reality instead of a blurry figure stranded across the empty expanse of the desert.

His phone finally pings, Michael’s answer short but sincere.

_Me too._

Alex stays outside long past midnight, after he’s certain Michael has dozed off. Then he grabs his mask from inside the trailer and wears it to feed the fire, making sure Michael won’t wake up cold.

Then he heads back to his own bed to stare up at the blank ceiling and feel worry chew steadily at his entrails until dawn.

* * *

Michael is up with the sun the next morning, making more noise than Alex would have thought one man capable of producing. The junkyard overflows with clanging and banging and metal grinding and periodic ear-splitting bursts as an air compressor powers tools Alex has never even seen before.

There’s a long scrape as Michael drags a sheet of metal from one side of the junkyard to his truck, stopping halfway to yank his shirt off over his head and use it to swipe at the sweat trickling down his neck. 

Alex immediately decides to take the morning off from coding.

(After all, the sight of a half-naked Michael Guerin performing manual labor is practically the definition of a hostile work condition.)

“What the hell are you doing?” Alex shouts from the trailer’s steps, steam swirling up from his favorite coffee cup, a faded black mug with a flying saucer drawn on it and the words “Get in, Loser,” printed in neon green beneath.

Instead of an answer, Guerin points at the coffee. “Can I have that?”

Alex just walks it out to the delivery lawn chair; Michael waits until he’s safely back on the steps before retrieving it. He pours a decent amount of whiskey into the mug from the bottle he keeps stashed under his driver’s seat, but Alex doesn’t say anything. If there was ever a time for day drinking, this is it.

He does, however, ask, “Should I be concerned that you’re operating power tools while under the influence?”

“Nah,” Michael answers, smacking his lips after a big sip. “My genius increases when I’m buzzed.”

Alex’s eyebrows raise to where his sleep-mussed hair has fallen across his forehead. “Okay, Einstein, sure. But I think I’ll just stay out here and supervise.”

Michael bows with a dramatic flourish. “Then prepare to be amazed.”

And, two hours later, Alex actually is. 

Michael has constructed a camper top for his truck bed, complete with semi-operable windows, out of nothing but spare parts he’d found in the junkyard and sheer ingenuity. It’s not the most aesthetically pleasing thing on earth, but now he’ll have breezy shade during the day and a way to keep in warmth at night.

It’s pretty damn impressive.

Michael puts the last finishing touches on it before he stretches out across the tailgate, tossing back a celebratory drink and letting the wind cool his sweat-slicked skin.

“Looks comfy,” Alex calls, trying to ignore the way his fingertips tingle with the idea of running over Michael’s muscles, hating the distance between them more than ever.

Michael shrugs, but he can’t hide his self-satisfaction. “It’s no Airstream, but it’ll do for now.”

* * *

Alex is a man of action. He’s used to being in charge, to making things happen, to having control of every situation.

But everything that’s happening now — the world on pause with an invisible enemy looming and Michael possibly infected — is completely beyond anyone’s control.

The anxiety is constantly buzzing through his blood and making his skin itch, his knee bounce, his fingers shake.

He finds that the only thing that helps is delivering things to make Michael more comfortable. Piles of blankets and pillows, fresh laundry, books and notebooks and pencils, a fully charged power bank for his phone, an oscillating fan that Michael rewires to operate on batteries, hot coffee and cold beer and thick socks and knitted hats. 

_It’s going to take me another two weeks just to move all this stuff back inside after my quarantine ends,_ Michael texts after the seventh delivery of the day.

_I just want you to be comfortable. It’s warm during the day but then so cold at night and you’ve got to be bored and lonely... I just want to help_.

_I know. Thanks._

It’s followed by a single heart emoji. 

Alex presses his thumb to it so tightly he can feel his own pulse throbbing rhythmically against the screen.

* * *

It quickly becomes routine, bringing Michael food and supplies, having random text conversations at all hours of the day and night, marking days off the two week self-isolation. Time finally seems to have meaning again for Alex after weeks of repetition leaving him anchorless and adrift.

_Twelve days left,_ he sends in the morning before pouring scrambled eggs into a skillet.

He hasn’t gotten a response by the time they’re cooked and on plates.

“Must not have charged his phone,” he mutters to himself, as if saying the words out loud will make them more true.

But even from halfway across the lot, he can tell that today is different. Guerin is still in his truck bed wrapped in all his blankets like a curly-haired burrito, and he’s not moving.

The shoddy scaffolding Alex had hastily constructed to hold all his hopes and wishes and denial collapses, scattering shrapnel and splinters of fear into his heart.

What if Michael has had a fever for days and just didn’t say anything? That’d be just like him. Alex should have been watching him closer, Michael could have been up all night coughing, he could be having trouble breathing, he could be...

“Michael!” Alex’s voice is a deflated balloon buffeted by the wind, sad and weak and broken.

He stands frozen, unblinking, barely breathing.

And then, after several seconds or eons or eternity, Guerin tugs himself semi-upright and works his good hand out of the blankets to wave. 

“I’m okay,” he calls, voice thick with disuse. “Just sleeping in.”

The blood rushes back through Alex’s head like a tidal wave; the plate nearly slips from his trembling hands. 

“Damn it, Guerin, don’t scare me like that.”

Michael just runs his hand over his wild bedhead, sunlight turning his brown curls a little reddish, his lips curling into a lazy smile. “Aw, Captain, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“Yes, you did,” Alex mutters, counting on the tranquil morning air to carry the quiet words to Michael’s ears as he stalks back into the trailer.

* * *

But, just in case it wasn’t clear (and not to be outdone by Michael’s inventiveness), Alex starts work on his own secret project the next morning. 

It’s not easy relocating the abandoned 170-gallon galvanized stock tank he’d spotted in the ranch land beyond the junkyard, but once he’s gotten it situated he’s pretty happy with the way it looks. He disconnects the hoses from the washing machine and tests the balance between hot and cold water until it’s exactly right, then pours in soap. 

A few minutes later the makeshift bathtub is full and steaming and bubbly and wonderful. 

_Go look behind the trailer,_ he texts. _I’ve got a surprise for you._

_Where are you?_ Michael answers.

_I’m safe inside. Go on._

In just a minute he hears the crunch of Michael’s boots on the other side of the window. His phone beeps a few seconds later.

_You didn’t have to go to all this trouble just to get me naked ;-)_

Alex laughs _. It started out as just wanting to get you clean…but it may have also occurred to me that, once this whole isolation thing is over, that tub is plenty big enough for two._

Michael groans loud enough that Alex can hear it through the closed window. 

_Forget this virus — *_ you’re* _what’s really going to be the death of me._

Alex just grins.

* * *

_Why’d you move in with me?_

Alex stares at the incoming text for a while without answering. Dust motes swirl in the sunbeam streaming through the window beside him; a cup of coffee cools, forgotten at his elbow. His laptop screen fades to black. 

It’d be easy enough to say that he couldn’t keep living on base after his discharge and Michael’s was the cheapest offer around. Or that he was intrigued by the curls and the chest hair and the cowboy hat, or even that he felt like he was drowning and this Airstream was his life preserver — but those are just parts of the story. 

The problem is, Alex isn’t sure what the rest of it is. 

He thinks it might be something bigger, something beyond him, something that speaks of ridiculous things like destiny and grand plans and true love. But he doesn’t believe in that stuff anymore. 

Does he?

_I don’t know_ , he finally answers. _But I think it was the best decision I ever made._

* * *

Plink.

Alex blinks, looking up from his laptop at the small, sharp sound coming from the window. 

Plink.

He gets up, moving the curtain aside just in time to see a third pebble bounce off the glass. 

Plink.

Michael stands fifteen feet away, holding a few rocks in his left palm, his right pulled back to toss another one—

—until he notices that he’s gotten Alex’s attention. 

Then he turns and gestures at Alex’s car with a swish of his hands, like a Price is Right model demonstrating a showcase full of riches.

The SUV is parked in the middle of the lot, all four doors standing open. It otherwise looks exactly the same as the last time Alex saw it; his eyebrows scrunch together as he tries to understand what Guerin’s showing him.

But then Michael leans through the open driver’s side door, pushes a button in the console, and sound comes flooding out. 

The radio. He’s fixed Alex’s radio. 

It has never worked, the silence just something to be begrudgingly accepted like the clanking sound the engine used to make. Alex told himself it was the price of buying a used car on the cheap, so he’d never complained about it, but Michael must have noticed when he was working on it a couple of weeks ago. 

The sound is clear and strong now, pouring out the speakers through the opened doors and finding its way to Alex’s side of the glass window. It’s tuned to a classic rock station with David Gilmour singing, “How I wish, how I wish you were here...” and the two of them are just standing there, silently staring at each other across the empty stretch of the junkyard. 

_So this is what it’s like to be cared for_ , Alex thinks, cautiously contented, the thought blooming from somewhere deep inside his chest. The idea of it spreads, his fingertips buzzing with it, his foot feeling grounded, rooted solidly to the earth. 

For a moment he even forgets about the prosthetic, about his usual struggles with balance and pain and feeling like a fraction of the person he once was. 

Then he wonders if maybe none of that is true anymore. If maybe he has become a different person, yes, but a more _complete_ one than he ever was before. 

So he just lingers there in the window, sweatpants hanging on his hips as he sways a little with the song, letting warmth wash over him until the notes fade away.

And then Michael spins the dial and lands on something with a faster beat, the bassline thrumming through the air. 

A circle of sunlight bathes him in brilliant gold and he’s grinning and singing off-key and dancing around terribly; Alex’s heart leaps from his chest and dances out there right beside him.

* * *

_So...tomorrow._

_Tomorrow._

They’ve reached the end of the fourteen days, and, just to be safe, Michael was finally able to get tested at a drive-through facility on the outskirts of town. They should have the results first thing in the morning.

_I’ll be happy to have a real roof over my head again,_ Michael sends.

_I’ll just be happy to have you back home._

Alex can see Michael smile from across the lot.

_Come on now. You know you’ve enjoyed having all that space to yourself._

_No. Space is overrated._

_You won’t still be saying that once I’m back in there snoring and talking too loud and getting in your way._

_Yes I will._ Alex looks up at him, their faces glowing from their lit phone screens, and he doesn’t even have to talk himself into being brave now, into willingly offering up his feelings. 

With Michael, it has become the easiest thing in the world. 

_I don’t ever want to spend another night without you snoring beside me._

It’s quiet for a long time, both of them drifting through their hopes and plans and dreams. 

Finally, Alex’s phone beeps again.

_So...tomorrow then._

He smiles. _Tomorrow_.

* * *

There’s a knock on the Airstream door as the first rays of sunlight break over the mountains in the distance. Its clean, pale yellow light washes over both their faces when Alex throws the door open.

"‘Sup, bro,” Michael says, clearly grinning behind the face mask he’s still wearing.

“Shut up,” Alex answers, pulling him in tightly for a hug, lips grazing over the warm skin where Michael’s neck meets his shoulder.

“So it’s the face mask that does it for you, huh? Guess I should have started wearing one ages ago.”

Alex can feel the teasing words rumble through their pressed-together chests.

“The face mask is the only reason I’m not kissing you right now.”

Michael pulls back just a fraction, just far enough to tug it down. “Good thing I tested negative then.”

Alex _beams._

And then they’re tangled up together and laughing and kissing and it’s nothing like he imagined. 

It’s better. 

The feel of Michael’s hand cupping his jaw, his fingertips sliding back to weave into Alex’s hair; the fresh toothpaste taste of his lips; the slide of his tongue that curls Alex’s toes; the hard heat of Michael’s body pressed against his; the bone-deep knowledge that this is never going to end, not really. 

And it doesn’t. 

Alex kisses Michael as they sway and stumble and laugh their way out of their clothes and fall into bed together; they kiss in the tiny trailer shower afterwards and when they cuddle up in Alex's bed before falling asleep. They kiss the next day while he’s cooking breakfast, and when Michael’s sweeping the floors, and after they finish bringing all his stuff back in from the truck, and when Alex takes a snack break from work. 

He kisses Michael after their first real fight as a couple and on their three-month anniversary, which Michael insists they calculate from the day Alex moved into the Airstream. 

(Alex will later learn it’s just so that when people ask how they started dating, Michael can answer with, “He paid me for us to start sleeping together.”) 

They kiss when the quarantine finally ends and the world comes back; they kiss a _lot_ right before Alex picks up the phone to tell Real Estate Agent Extraordinaire™ Linda Butterfield to find them a cozy little 2 bed, 2 bath on a good-sized slice of desert a few miles outside of town.

He kisses Michael when they finally move into their so-called “forever home,” which is so full of light and sturdy furniture and real love that Alex could have never dreamed he’d have anything like it in his life.

* * *

He sends Linda an effusive thank you card tucked inside an enormous fruit basket. 

And then, fourteen months later, an invitation to his wedding.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’m on tumblr as sabrinachill — feel free to come flail with me about whatever, whenever. Love you.


End file.
